of the night
by m-erechyn
Summary: There are things one learns, and then there are things one doesn't question. "Remus knows the moon can be reached—after all, even the muggles did it not too long ago—but the stars are unattainable." Slash, stargazing, and thoughtful fluff. Remus/Sirius.


Disclaimer: The moon and the stars belong to us all, but HP is JKR's.

_A/N: This one's a gift. For anyone who's ever read, reviewed, or otherwise dealt with my fics, this one's for you. Thank you. But it's especially for _Sivaroobini Lupin-Black, _or_ siriusluva,_ because she's a wonderful, prolific writer, and even better than that-- a great friend. Thank you!_

Written in a car, late at night, longhand, in ballpoint pen. Thanks for reading! 

* * *

Remus knows he's a child of the night; that the moon is carved into his body and bones, but he can't ignore the signs that his mind aligns toward Sirius.

Every small touch—that brush of arm against arm, a finger jokingly held against already-hushed lips—burns, and Remus fancies he can see sparks trailing across his skin when they collide. They're all accidental moments, of course: Remus can't quite believe them to be anything else. Sirius is expansive and oh so hopelessly blithe; his attentions can't possibly be directed at Remus in particular.

Their conversations, too, are riddled with undertones Remus thinks he's the only one hearing. Though he hates himself for it, he'll spend _hours_ dissecting a sentence, extracting every last interpretation, wondering at this or that until Padfoot bursts into the dormitory, knocking him off his feet. Then suddenly it's not a dog pinning him to the coverlet but Sirius, boy again, that feckless sparkle in his eyes. Remus can't think about hidden meanings when their origin is right in front of him; Sirius's body crushing the breath out of him in more ways than one.

Remus knows the moon can be reached—after all, even the muggles did it not too long ago—but the stars are unattainable.

So he's good at pretending those stray moments don't matter; he's good at faking that unfeeling ruggedness after every full moon, when Sirius stays behind to make sure he's not broken. The moon and the stars—even the dim ones—move in different circles, and Sirius has always been the brightest in the sky. Remus knows to protect himself from falls and tumbles, and so he insulates himself against the possibility that Sirius might feel anything back.

Remus doesn't go so far as to get a girlfriend, no: though he's learned to overcome his fear of the moon there is still something about her daughters that utterly mystifies him. He doesn't care for girls past a simple friendship; perhaps it's their terrifying giggling and the way their soft bodies taper into curves, not angles. Or maybe it's something else entirely; something unnameable but always there. Whatever it is, Remus doesn't question the meaning behind his mind. And when a girl asks, he'll never say _no, there's someone else_, because there isn't, not to him, and yet of course there is. That someone just happens to be obviously male and obliviously unattached.

The moon has the tides and the Earth has the sun, but the stars are light-years away, too distant to be known. Except, perhaps, by those with the willingness to reach and search for that far off light, with a telescope, a pair of wondering eyes, two hands that stretch out for the sky.

Remus isn't close to Sirius in the way James is; those two are brothers of different blood. Instead, Remus is the one Sirius confides in, the one he looks to for guidance in the deepest hours of night: when James is halfway across the room and the borders of consciousness, dreaming about Lily, and Peter is an afterthought as he snuffles in his sleep. It's a quiet closeness, a whispered bond that doesn't make itself known in the halls as the Potter-Black alliance does, but it's there—that unnoticed necessary—and Remus will never let it go. It's a tricky thing to be let past the famous Black defenses, and Remus has found his own hushed place within those walls, over those years that they've grown close.

But it's not that type of caring, not that elusive emotion, the one that keeps Remus up so late at night, thinking and thinking and thinking again. It's not something that can fill the longing a boy can't even pin a name to—that ache under the ribs, that breathlessness at the moment, that quiet, secret feeling, only selfish in that it's unsaid. Remus knows it's not that type of caring, because it couldn't be—it's not _normal_, no, not in this day and age. He's already full of abnormalities; he's a walking, talking contradiction, defying all names and labels, but surely Sirius is not so strange.

- - - - - -

"Remus," Sirius says quietly, sneaking into the common room, though it's been lights out for hours. The only strange thing about it is that he's using Remus's name; not the aliases they've created for themselves for the past two years.

Remus has been reading in the common room, curled up on a couch, his _lumos_ hovering just above his shoulder. He looks up. "Yes?"

"Let's stargaze," Sirius says, gray eyes aglow. Remus doesn't know what this means; doesn't know if it's a plea for help or just another wild idea of Sirius's—it's so hard to tell in these dark days—but he gets up, closes his book, and follows Sirius out the door.

It's not so hard to pretend it's meaningless. He's had a lot of practice, after all.

- - - - - -

They are sprawled out on the grass, two children of the night gazing up at their moon and stars. There are no pesky muggle streetlights or roaring cars to get in the way, and so their stargazing is blissfully unimpeded. Remus thinks, rather poetically, that the sky looks like a piece of dark blue paper pinpricked with holes and held against a brilliant light: as though the barrier of the sky itself is the only thing keeping back endless day.

Sirius's body is warm beside his, though for once the other boy is utterly silent. Perhaps he's starstruck, Remus thinks. The grass is scratchy and prickly beneath his cotton shirt, and though Remus is tempted to shift, to turn (among other things) he's starstruck too, and he lies there, breathing slowly, deeply, tasting the night with each inhaled lungful of cool air.

But perhaps starstruck isn't the best word to describe Remus, because as much as he wants to count and name the stars—quantifying his longing, saving Sirius for last—his gaze is drawn to that gibbous orb, that inexorable pull of the moon. Moonstruck would be better, Remus thinks, but then Sirius shifts next to him, flushed skin brushing against skin and then suddenly Remus can't think about adjectives anymore. Every molecule of his being is focused on that one glancing intersection, the point where their bodies meet.

"Three-quarters full tonight," Remus says aloud, hopelessly trying to break the tension that he is certain is one-sided. He wants so badly to move away from Sirius's touch, move his arm so they're no longer in contact, but the rush of heat on his cheeks tells him otherwise. "Gibbous."

"Ignore the moon for once, Remus." Sirius's voice is soft tonight, sleepy and uncertain. "Look at the stars instead." Something hums and thrums in Remus's veins, a tingle all along his arm, and it's stronger than the pull of the moon.

He turns, faces Sirius. The other boy's gazing up at the sky, eyes wide open, lips parted, as if he's drinking in the night that surrounds them. Starlight pours across his face, glancing off nose and cheekbone. He shines so brightly Remus can't turn away. He wouldn't want to. He never would, never could.

Somewhere far off, but not out of sight, a meteor careens down to earth, trailing bright white sparks.

"I'm looking at one," Remus breathes, so quietly he hopes Sirius won't hear. He feels that familiar ache, that lonely affection squeezing at his heart, so profound he thinks he might break. He's hyperaware of the moment, something running through him that isn't magic, but more. Something that tells him to wait. To stay.

Sirius turns, faces Remus. Bright white sparks dance in his eyes.

"Catch me," he says, and then their lips meet.

Remus can feel a smile on the mouth he's already marked as his own, that hopeless happiness making itself known. He begins to laugh, freely, closing his eyes and laughing, and Sirius touches his forehead to his and laughs, too.

It is not warm outside, and the grass is prickly because Sirius insisted they didn't need to bring blankets, but they don't notice. They don't notice.

They are young and uncertain and tentative and yes, even a little bit scared but as they laugh and hold each other in the cold Remus fancies the darkness is fading away, until there's only _light_. They are two boys, awkward and fumbling and hopelessly bedazzled; two boys in love, bathed in light.

Remus still knows he's a child of the night; that the moon is carved into his body and his bones, but he won't ignore the signs that his heart aligns toward Sirius.


End file.
